his lips are a closed door and the words are hiding inside. i know he means them, even if door is locked because his mouth is scared. the words don’t need to jump out just yet because i kissed him and i felt them.
I put too much cream in my coffee again this morning. don't know why I keep doing that. what I usually do is fill my spoon with cream, and stir it into the coffee. perfect. but lately I've been forgetting small parts of my routines or doing them backwards.
I put too much cream in my coffee. it tasted so wrong, I could only bear to drink three and a half sips before dumping it down the drain. wasteful, I know, but I never would have finished it anyway.
I put too much cream in my coffee. I can't trust my shaking hands. I overfilled my spoon with a jerk of my frail hand.
I put too much cream in my coffee and I can't focus properly. I put too much red paint with the yellow and ruined a painting I've been working on for weeks. I put too much cheese in my scrambled eggs and the cheese stuck to the pan. I put too much
Some pens are better than others. it’s true that not all writing utensils are created equal. Some pens are smooth, and flow across the page, putting ideas on paper in the most beautiful way any pen could. Other pens are scratchy, forcing a writer to frustratedly scribble on a separate page, begging them to work. lazy pens. They collect their ink in droplets on the other side of their tips and let it fall onto your writing. a glob in the middle of your poem, a splotch on your otherwise adorable doodle. it’s a blemish in your notebook,
hair’s a mess. mascara’s running. bite at your thumb. 1:27 a.m. door closed blanket wrapped tight what’s the point? useless unwanted stupid unloved. wipe away tears. door opened live your sparkling lie.
She lays back in the grass, blades poking at her bare arms. she doesn’t mind.
miles away, he carefully spreads out the quilt that still smells like her. He can’t stand the feeling of grass on his skin
She absentmindedly plucks it with her left hand.
he lays down and through long breaths, rising above him into the darkness, the stars are visible. in the stars, he sees so many constellations. Orion, Cassiopeia, Aries, and her eyes.
all she sees are white dots, glowing in the sky. The big dipper is right there. he’d tried to teach her how to see them. she searched and searched, no lines came to connect the stars. she closed her eyes, aware of all the night’s sounds around her. when they finally fluttered open, the only thing she saw was him.
5:37pm the sun has kissed the ice-covered horizon goodnight. the rest of my family is inside, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows. the television's flickering glow bounces outside. I lay in the snow outside, small fingers going numb one by one. breath puffs outward in small white clouds. the cold isn't real unless I believe it's real. My hair's short curls are frozen in place and my snow suit has become heavy with snow, melted by body heat. What if I sleep here? just for tonight. Would Santa Claus come to take me to the North Pole? or would I die from frost biting me, like mommy said I would? I wiggle my toes in my too-big boots. How long would I have to wait? 5:41pm
Vermont is a beautiful state of vibrant colors and different kinds of people. I have never known anything else. And of all the places i can think to spend the rest of my life, Vermont is my last choice.
My whole family is here, contained in this small state. All of my childhood memories and every one of my close friends trapped within this giant forest.
But I want to escape. I hate living in a place where everyone seems to know everyone, but somehow I feel invisible. I hate living in a place where I constantly feel judged. I hate living in a place so suffocating that even your most reasonable dreams are too ambitious.
So I'm (not) sorry, Vermont. It's not me. It's you.